Resurrection
by r4ven3
Summary: Set after Series 10 ends, so completely AU, but by the end of Chapter 1 you will have some idea of where this is headed. An HR story in 12 chapters.
1. Chapter 1

"Watts," Erin answers her phone – Harry's phone, in Harry's office – her first call for the day.

"Erin? I was expecting to speak to Harry. It's Ruth."

Erin has an answer for most things, but at this moment – at 8.12 on a crisp and clear Monday morning in February 2012 – she can find no words.

"I rang early hoping to catch Harry," the caller continues.

The voice sounds like Ruth's, but it can't be. She'd been at the funeral, she'd kept her eyes on Harry while he stood next to Malcolm Wynn-Jones, his face impassive, his jaw set, his emotions tightly held. She'd been there when Ruth had died. She'd been pulled away from Harry leaning over Ruth's body - his shoulders shaking, his tears flowing freely - by Calum, who for once had acted much wiser than his years.

"I hope you'll understand why I say this, Ruth, but I need proof that you are who you say you are."

"Of course, I understand that. Do you want my call number?"

"Yes."

Ruth gives her correct call number, but Erin knows that could have been obtained by anyone using any number of means.

"Ruth ….. can you tell me my child's name?"

"You have a daughter named Rosie, and if my memory serves me correctly, she turns six next month."

That still may not be enough, but for now, it has to be.

"Ruth," Erin continues, "are you in London? If so, can we meet?"

"What aren't you telling me, Erin? Where's Harry?"

"Harry had to take some time off. I'm sitting in his chair. Literally."

"I'm not currently in London. I thought it unwise to simply turn up on people's doorsteps. I've been staying in my mother's house. She, er …... she …."

"We heard about your mother, Ruth. I'm very sorry to hear that." Harry had attended Elizabeth Bickley's funeral, and then promptly announced that he was going on leave.

"Thank you, Erin. I didn't get back here quickly enough. She died within hours of her stroke... I can be in London tomorrow, if that suits."

"Tomorrow suits me, but why don't we meet half way?" Erin gives Ruth an address, and they agree to meet next day at midday.

Very gently, Erin puts the phone receiver back in its cradle, noticing that her hand is shaking.

* * *

Ruth is already there, standing under the awning outside the coffee shop in Aylesbury, as Erin hurries down the street towards her. It is definitely Ruth. Erin stops for a moment, and watches her unseen. She is dressed in a long, dark green coat with the collar turned up, a maroon scarf around her neck, and woollen maroon gloves. On her feet are long brown boots which disappear under the coat. She looks softer than the Ruth who always wore black or dark blue to work. Erin decides that it is the hair which softens Ruth. She is wearing it just short of shoulder length, and layered, so that it curls around her face. For the first time, she is struck by Ruth's dark, exotic beauty. Previously, Erin had considered her to be rather plain, even dowdy. How terribly wrong she'd been.

"Ruth," she says, as she draws level with her, and the older woman turns, and smiles.

"It's good to see you, Erin. It's been …... a long time."

"Over three months. Harry would know the number of days and hours."

They both smile at mention of Harry, and then Ruth's face becomes serious. "How is he? I haven't been able to contact him. It's one of the reasons I'm back in the UK."

"Harry is …... Harry's been better. He's taking a few weeks off. He's been …... burning the candle at both ends."

"I'm hoping he misses me."

"I think you'll find that he misses you very much, Ruth." Both women look at one another knowingly before Erin continues. "Before we have lunch, there's something I need to show you. To do so, we have to go across the street." Erin points across the street. "To that church."

"St Mary's. Lovely church. Very old, too. Thirteenth century, I believe. Prior to it being built, a Saxon church stood there."

Erin is sure Ruth's information is correct. It usually is.

They cross the road, having to hurry to avoid a stream of cars driving a little over the 30 mph speed limit.

"Ruth …... I chose that coffee shop because it's over the road from this church."

"I wouldn't have thought you'd found religion, Erin."

"No, I haven't. I suppose you could say that MI-5 is my religion."

Ruth smiles as Erin guides her past the church's entrance, and towards the churchyard at the side. Ruth suddenly stops, her eyes wide, her hand over her mouth, stifling a cry.

"It's Harry, isn't it?" she whispers. "That's why you're in his chair. He's -"

Erin reaches out a hand, but stops before she touches Ruth. Comforting others does not come naturally to her. That is something at which Ruth excels, and Erin envies her that. "No, it's not Harry. He's alive and …... well, he's not all that well. There's something I need to show you which may explain Harry's absence from work."

"His children?" Ruth's face is again stricken.

"No, not his children. Come with me."

And Ruth does. She's wary, of course, but she follows Erin to the new part of the churchyard, where the graves look fresh, the gravestones bright and shiny, and yet to be weathered, and the dates of death are all in the 21st century. Erin stops by one of these new graves, and then turns, her arm out to Ruth.

"You need to see this, Ruth. This will explain everything."

Erin watches Ruth's eyes, as she turns to read the inscription on the gravestone. Then, she steps close to her, ready to comfort her should she need comforting.

"Is this a joke?" Ruth asks, her face torn between confusion and laughter.

"It's not a joke, Ruth. You were declared dead at the scene of your stabbing. We all believed you to be dead …... even Harry. He held you in his arms and cried. He was devastated ….. he still is."

Ruth reads aloud the words of the inscription.  
"_Ruth Evershed_," she reads, "_1970 to 2011. Loved daughter of James and Elizabeth. Always My Beloved._" And then she puts her hand over her mouth to stifle the sobs which emerge from her chest, and into her throat, almost choking her.

Erin places her hand firmly against Ruth's back, while she cries out her anguish. "That poor man," she says, in between her sobs. "That poor, poor man."

* * *

_**A/N: There is a Church of England church called St Mary the Virgin in Aylesbury, but I can't claim there to be a coffee shop across the road. For the purposes of this fic, there is!**_

_**And as to why Ruth was buried in Aylesbury …... your guess is as good as mine.**_


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N: Thank you for reading, reviewing, and the interest shown so far. And for those who want a plot/explanation, I've tried, and it makes sense to me, so that will have to do, I'm afraid._**

* * *

They are sitting over cups of coffee, each having put in an order for a sandwich. It is lunchtime, and the tables in the shop are rapidly filling. Erin has left it up to Ruth to lead the conversation, although she has a thousand and one questions of her own.

"So," Ruth says at last, "where is Harry?"

"We don't know. He didn't tell us, and we haven't asked. Nor has anyone used electronic means to find him. He came back to work very soon after your funeral, saying he needed to keep working."

"Harry doesn't do time off very well," Ruth adds, a small smile on her lips. "He needs to feel useful."

"He's been working very long hours. He even spent Christmas Day on the Grid. Calum called in during the afternoon, and found him there." Erin's voice tails off. Calum had found Harry slumped in his chair, sleeping, a half empty bottle of whiskey beside him. He'd had to drive Harry home, and had even stayed for a couple of hours until he felt sure that Harry was safe being left alone. Ruth has no need to know this.

"Everyone on the Grid – Harry included – believed you to have died as a result of the injury you sustained when Sasha Gavrik stabbed you. Your funeral was held seven days later."

"Who identified my body? It can't have been Harry."

"No. It was William Towers."

Ruth nods slowly, taking in the information. "So …... he's part of the conspiracy."

Erin files away the word `conspiracy' before speaking. "And he resigned ten weeks later," she says.

"So I heard. How are you finding Simon Chatterton? How is Harry finding him?"

"I rather like him, but Harry …... well, you know how he views politicians. Harry says he lives up to his name – the `Chatter' part, that is."

"Do you know who it is in that grave across the road?"

Erin shakes her head slowly. "Most likely some vagrant or homeless person who died of exposure, or a drug overdose."

Ruth nods her head slowly. "And my replacement on the Grid?"

"Harry waited until it was almost impossible to continue without a specialist senior analyst. Eventually, we were sent Jordana Bell, from GCHQ."

"I hope Harry was nice to her."

"What do you think? It took two weeks before he'd even look at her, and another few weeks until he'd speak directly to her."

"I hope she's thick-skinned."

"If she wasn't when she joined us, she is now." Erin smiles at the memory of Jordana keeping to herself, doing her job, and communicating with Harry through either her or Calum.

"_Was it his wife who died?" Jordana had asked, at the end of her first week on the Grid._

"_They weren't married," Erin had replied. "But they should have been."_

The sandwiches are delivered to their table, and both women pick at theirs, although they should be hungry, having been many hours since they each ate breakfast.

"I suppose you want to know what happened to me after I didn't die," Ruth says at last.

"I must confess that I'm curious, and when I tell the others about you, they'll want to know."

So for the next hour and a half, Ruth fills in Erin on the last three months of her life.

"I hadn't internet access for that whole time, Erin, so I was unable to communicate with anyone outside my immediate circle of contacts. They also took my phone from me. I suppose they were afraid I'd call Harry, and so find out ..."

"So, it's a good thing that I thought to bring you a laptop with a dongle for the safe server."

"I take it you have permission for that to leave the Grid, Erin."

"What Harry doesn't know, won't hurt him." They both smile at Erin's words. "Which brings us to the next big issue, Ruth …..."

"How to find Harry, and then how to tell him that I didn't die …... it needs to be handled with sensitivity, Erin."

"I agree."

* * *

In another county, a middle-aged man looks through yet another cottage, having several weeks ago decided that he needs a retreat away from London. Everything in London reminds him of what he has lost forever, and whilst that provides some comfort, it also keeps him trapped within a maelstrom of pain, grief and regret …... and guilt. Ruth's untimely and tragic death has left him feeling incredibly guilty, and nothing – not work, not whiskey, not sleep, not self-loathing – has managed to appease that guilt.

He tries to imagine himself living in this small house – two bedrooms, only a twenty minute walk to the North Sea – and as with all the other cottages, he can't. To his eternal relief, the estate agent has left him to wander around on his own. He hates it when they insist on following him through the house, selling each room as they pass through. As cottages go, this one is well appointed, recently renovated, and has a small and leafy garden which can be seen from the kitchen, living room, and dining room. He can certainly see himself sitting out there of a summer evening, even though he'll be sitting alone. The asking price is a little high, but he's sure he can get them to bring it down, and even if he can't, he can still afford it.

It's just that each of these houses will always have one missing ingredient …... the same missing ingredient for each house. No matter where he lives, Ruth will always be missing from it. Had she lived, by now they would be living in her cottage with the peeling green paint on the door. He couldn't bear to buy that house, any more than he can bear to buy this one, but it's the best he's seen, although it's in Norfolk, and not Suffolk. Would Ruth mind?

Harry stops himself right there. _Ruth is dead, Harry,_ he tells himself. _Deal with it, and get on with your life_. It's just that as hard as he's been trying, he can't get on with it. His life has broken into a thousand pieces, like the china teapot he'd smashed against his kitchen wall on the evening Ruth had died. It hadn't been an accident. It had been sitting on his kitchen table, waiting for Ruth to visit and share a pot of tea with him, so he'd picked it up and hurled it against the wall.

* * *

The coffee shop is due to close at 5, and Ruth and Erin are still inside, hunched over a pot of tea.

"Do you trust me to deal with telling Harry?" Erin asks. "It's just that were you to approach him …."

"The poor man might have a heart attack," Ruth says.

"The shock might be rather damaging, yes. I'll contact him tonight. I'm not sure what I'll say, or how I'll go about it. I need to let the others on the Grid know, as well. I imagine you'll need work, Ruth."

"Yes …... I've been wondering whether to contact Simon Chatterton about my old job, but I'd rather be near Harry."

"And I think he'd agree with that. I imagine he'll not want you out of his sight again." Erin contemplates her tea cup for a moment before she continues. "At your funeral …... Malcolm Wynn-Jones mentioned to me that you and Harry were planning to leave the service together."

"Yes ….. we were. Harry must have confided in Malcolm. Harry's a very private person. I doubt he would have told anyone else."

"It's just that I think Harry is only staying in the job to keep himself occupied …... to keep his mind on something other than his loss. Despite that, you could still work on the Grid. Jordana is rather good, but she's only on secondment until a full time replacement can be found."

"I haven't seriously considered what I'll do now I'm here. My aim has been to see Harry, and after that, it's all a bit of a blank."

They say goodbye outside the coffee shop. Ruth needs to drive her mother's car back to Cheltenham, and Erin has to get back to London, and put in a few hours on the Grid before she goes home. Her immediate aim is to get Calum to hack into the system of the hospital where Ruth had been taken over three months ago, in search of proof that she didn't die, and that she was transferred – alive – out of the hospital.

By the time she steps back on to the Grid, Calum has found something.

"It was there all the time," he says, drawing her over to his desk. "It's just that we hadn't been looking for it."

"Can this be emailed to Harry?"

"I'll put it in a form which can be. He'll want to see proof. He'll not believe that you had lunch today with the woman we'd all believed to be dead."

* * *

Harry has just poured his first single malt for the evening, and is sitting back in a comfortable chair in his hotel room in Great Yarmouth, when his mobile phone rings. He'd toyed with the possibility of keeping his phone turned off for the duration of his leave, but perhaps that would be tempting fate. He checks the caller, and is not surprised.

"Erin," he says, not even attempting to hide is irritation.


	3. Chapter 3

**_A/N: As this story is in 12 chapters (and is already written and completed) I'll try to update daily. Once again, thanks for the enthusiasm._**

* * *

Harry contemplates the glass of single malt which sits untouched on the small table beside his chair. He could knock it back, and then what? Another? And another?

He knows he should feel elated, but all he feels is angry. Very bloody angry. Not only has he had to endure sixteen weeks believing that the woman he loves is dead, but she has had to endure a form of imprisonment in a foreign country, believing that her sacrifice will ultimately help him keep his job. Lies, of course. More lies, and more betrayal. When will it end?

By the time he'd finished his phone conversation with Erin he had felt elated, but once he'd checked the encrypted email from the Grid, he was beginning to fume. There is a part of him wants to take the whiskey bottle and hurl it through the window, just to hear the shattering of glass, while another part of him wants to howl like the wounded animal he feels he is.

More than any of that, he needs to speak with Ruth. He has her mobile number, but he isn't yet in a fit state to be talking to her. She'll be expecting him to make contact, so he sends her a text message: _I have only just found out that you are alive. My heart is in pieces, and I need time to put myself back together before I speak to you. Will you allow me an hour or two before I call you? H xx_

Within a minute, he receives a reply: _I will wait for you until we are both old and toothless. I look forward to your call. Your Ruth xx_

Once he has read her message, Harry kisses the screen. Then he lets his head fall back against the back of the chair and allows the tears to flow freely.

* * *

Ruth is happy to have received a communication from Harry. She had not been allowed to take any form of electronic communication with her to France. She had been told that to do so would put her in danger, making it easier for foreign security services to find her. Given she was still convalescing at the time, she had accepted the reasons given. On her phone's SIM had been all her contact numbers, including Harry's mobile number. The only numbers she'd remembered by heart had been her home phone number – useless to her now - her mother's home phone number, and Harry's work number, and by the time she'd dialed it, Harry had gone on leave, and Erin was in his chair.

After she'd sent her reply text to Harry, she'd re-read his message several times, and then she'd shed a few tears – for herself, but mostly for the two of them. So much time had been wasted, time in which they need to have been together.

Two hours later, her mobile rings. Like her, Harry is using a pay as you go phone for their communications. She knows it is he. Who else could it be?

"Harry?"

"Ruth."

They each wait for the other to speak, listening to the breathing of the other through the phone.

The conversation, their first in over three months, is difficult. Neither wishes to take charge of the conversation, both wish to know about the other, but they spend their time listening while the other either breathes into the phone, or leaves yet another sentence unfinished.

"It's so good to hear your voice," Harry says at last, relieved to have completed a thought before the words faded in his throat.

"I could listen all night to you talking, Harry."

"I'm not sure that I could talk all night," he replies.

They say both nothing and everything, knowing that the phone call is for the purpose of ensuring the other is alive and well. Exchange of information will have to wait until they see one another.

After arranging where they will meet and when, they then quickly hang up, both exhausted by the effort. Their plan is for Harry to drive to Cheltenham the following day. Ruth needs to remain in Cheltenham while she sells her mother's house. She no longer feels an attachment to it, and besides, she needs the money.

* * *

Ruth feels calm to the point of detachment …... until she hears the car door slam, followed closely by the knock on the front door. There is a functioning doorbell, but how like Harry to choose to ignore it. She takes a deep breath to steady herself, and walks to the door. He stands, rock-like, on the front step, blocking out what little light there is on this grey day, while she stands half hidden by the door, her hand still holding the door knob. They stare at one another, neither speaking. They first have to drink in the other in order to believe that this is happening.

Harry is near tears, and the last thing he wants is to cry in front of Ruth. He moves his mouth as if to speak, but no words come. Ruth's face is smiling, and her eyes sparkling, showing she is happy to see him.

Ruth wants to throw herself at him, and hug him and kiss him, but she and Harry are not like that. They have always practised restraint when around one another. Ruth wonders whether such restraint is now necessary, or even wise. After all, there are no witnesses to their reunion, no-one to judge or question or gossip. No-one to harm them. They are free to behave as they wish.

Harry steps past her into the hallway, firstly removing his coat, and handing it to Ruth, who hangs it on a hook on the wall behind the door. After she shuts the door behind them, they each turn to face the other. He wonders would she mind if he hugged her. He wants to put his arms around her and hold her close to him. He needs to feel her body against his, to ensure she is real, and not some spectre of Ruth sent to haunt him.

Ruth wonders would Harry consider it inappropriate were she to put her arms around him and hold him. They have been apart for so long, and under the most difficult of circumstances, and all she wants to do is feel his warmth close to her, against her, while his strong arms envelop her.

Harry steps closer to her.

Ruth takes a step towards him.

"Ruth?" he says, and then his composure cracks. As hard as he tries, he cannot stop the tears spilling from his eyes, and rolling down his cheeks.

Ruth reaches towards him with both arms, and he leans down to her to put his arms around her waist, and draw her close to him. She nestles against his chest, her face against his neck, while he cries quietly against her shoulder.

Ruth has shed a few tears for her mother, and then for Harry, but she feels she no longer has anything to cry about, but she knows that Harry has. For the past sixteen weeks he has believed her to be dead. He'd attended her funeral, and had a gravestone inscribed to put on the grave in which he'd believed her body lay. He has plenty to cry about, and Ruth is prepared to give him time to in which to shed his tears.

It is a while before Ruth feels his body become calm. She has wrapped her arms around him so that her palms are pressed against his back, from where she has felt his sobs subside, and his breathing once more returning to normal.

Harry lifts his head, and looks down at her as she lifts her face to him. He longs to kiss her, but that will have to wait until after he's washed his face. "Welcome back, Ruth," he says, his voice husky with emotion.

"I never really went anywhere," she says, lifting her lips to kiss his wet cheek.


	4. Chapter 4

They are sitting in Ruth's mother's kitchen, a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches between them.

Harry had asked to be directed to the bathroom so that he could wash his face and take a moment to compose himself. By the time he'd returned downstairs, Ruth was occupied making the tea, and so there was no opportunity for kissing her ... unless he'd crept up behind her and kissed her neck, but that could have scared her, or put her off him altogether. Harry is aware that these first minutes together, while difficult, could make or break any chance they have to be together as a couple, and so he chooses to sit down, the width of the table separating them.

"I'm not all that hungry," Harry admits, taking in the sandwiches, enough for several hungry people.

"You've lost weight," she observes.

"You look wonderful," he remarks, smiling across the table at her, his eyes bright, the sadness no longer threatening to overwhelm him.

Ruth drops her eyes, embarrassed by the compliment, having not been one to attract such observations from men, and especially men like Harry …... men who have known a lot of women, most of them glamourous and confident women.

"Will you stay a while?" she asks, more to change the subject …... to remove the focus from her.

"I can stay for as long as you want. I checked out of my hotel, and so all my things are in the car." He looks across at her, to gauge her reaction to his words. Does she want him to stay overnight? Does she mean for him to stay a few days or a few weeks? For the rest of their lives? Harry is as nervous as a teenager with his first ever girlfriend. "If you don't want me to stay here, I can check into a hotel nearby."

"Whatever for? I'd like you to stay here. There's a nice bedroom which overlooks the back garden. I've already made up the bed - it's double bed, and …..." Ruth is talking herself into an awkward corner, one which will surely leave her flustered and embarrassed.

Harry wants to ask her where she is sleeping, but that is not a conversation to be having now. They have still to talk about what had been happening to Ruth during the time since she'd been airlifted to hospital. Harry really wants to know about that, but he's leaving it for Ruth to determine when she's comfortable enough to speak about it.

Ruth drives her mother's car to the shops, and they stock up on supplies. She knows that Harry will want wine and whiskey, and possibly beer. She will have to find out from him what it is he likes to eat. Here they are – together, sort of – having known one another for nine years, and she has little idea what food he likes. To look at him, he probably eats almost anything and everything, but that's just her assumption. Before today, she'd rarely seen him eat. She can't go wrong with pasta. Everyone likes pasta. And chicken.

They fill two supermarket trolleys – food in one, and drinks in the other – and Harry insists on paying for the lot.

"Harry, I didn't ask you here to look after me."

"Why not? Let me, Ruth. I want to. It will make me feel …..."

"Better? Less guilty?"

"Less guilty is an impossibility, Ruth. I let you down, and for that, I can never forgive myself." Harry's mouth is close to Ruth's ear as they wait in line to be served.

Ruth turns her head so that she is looking at him. Their faces are still very close. "We need to talk, Harry. After dinner tonight."

He nods, wondering whether it is fair for him to be offloading his guilt on to her. Of course, he knows it's not, but he needs to talk to her all the same. The past sixteen weeks are like a dark cloud which never leaves.

* * *

After they pack away the food and drinks, Ruth asks Harry to bring his things inside so that she can show him his room.

As Harry places his bags on the floor of the quite large bedroom, Ruth pulls back the curtains to reveal the rain steadily falling outside. Despite the gloom, he can see that the back yard is large, and the garden well tended, with a lawn, surrounded by shrubs and small trees.

"Mum had been getting a man in to tend to it for her. It just got too big for her to look after."

"It's lovely," he says, moving to stand close behind her, both of them gazing out the window, mainly so they don't have to look at one another.

He is standing rather close to her, and were he to take just a half a step forward, they would be touching – his chest against her shoulder, his thighs against her buttocks. He closes his eyes, trying to imagine what that would feel like.

"Harry …... are you alright?"

Eyes open again. "Yes. I'm fine. Maybe I'm a little tired. I haven't been sleeping well, and last night I barely slept at all."

She is staring at him, and he's sure she doesn't believe a word he says.

"Right. Do you need a sleep before dinner?"

"Jesus, Ruth, I'm not a geriatric."

"I didn't say you were. I know you've been under a great strain."

_Not nearly as much as I am at this moment._ "I'm fine, Ruth. Now I'm here with you." He smiles down at her, and steps aside to allow her to leave the room. As much as he's been looking forward to spending time with her in such close proximity, it has its disadvantages, his libido being chief among them.

* * *

Amongst their mass of groceries are some ready made lasagnas – just heat and serve. Ruth is not the most confident of cooks, and cooking for Harry is something she is happy to do, but the meal needs to be simple; things like chicken with fried rice she can handle.

The day has been stressful for both she and Harry. Reunions tend to be that way, with expectations met or not met. For herself, the reality has exceeded her expectations, which were rather low. After the initial discomfort, she and Harry are slowly relaxing into being together again, although it had only been minutes they'd been together – as a couple - before she was stabbed.

Ruth has given him the job of making a salad, while she showers and changes, and the lasagna heats. When she returns to the kitchen, Harry is serving the lasagna, and is about to open a bottle of Italian red. They smile shyly at one another.

They begin eating in silence – a silence Harry enjoys, but doesn't wish to become a habit. He is about to raise the subject of Ruth's three months away when his phone rings.

"Erin," he says, seeing caller ID. He listens to what she has to say, and feels his face tighten. It has taken him all day to relax, and now this. "You'd better read it to me first, and then send it on. I'll read it later on my laptop." He listens as Erin speaks, and then he thanks her, and ends the call. He puts his phone back in his pocket, and leans back in his chair.

"Is something wrong?" Ruth asks.

"I'm not sure whether what Erin told me is wrong exactly. It's the truth, but it's not a very pleasant truth. Do you want to hear it?" When Ruth nods, he continues. "She checked her email this afternoon, and there was one from Towers …... sent from him to me. Being Acting Section Head, she read it on my behalf. Towers seems to be clearing his conscience. He admits to selling you off to the CIA in my stead. They paid him to have you declared dead, and then sent to France. Did you know you were being held hostage by the CIA, Ruth?"

Ruth sighs heavily, and then nods.

"When were you going to tell me? How did you manage to get away from them? Do you not think they may come looking for you?"

She sighs again, and pushes her plate of lasagna away from her, suddenly no longer hungry. She fiddles with the stem of her wine glass, chiefly so she doesn't have to look at Harry, who seems rather upset.

"Harry," she begins, concentrating on her wine glass, almost afraid to look at him, "I'll tell you what I know, but first you have to promise me something."

"And what is that, Ruth?"

"That after you hear what I have to tell you, that you'll stay here – with me – and not go off looking to right wrongs."

Harry watches her until she lifts her head to look at him. "I'm here because I wish to be with you, Ruth, and I'm not leaving."

"Well, that's a good thing."


	5. Chapter 5

Harry had suggested they clean up after the meal before they settle at the table over fresh glasses of wine – this time a white.

"All I know is that William Towers – your esteemed _employer_, Ruth – sold you to the CIA, on the proviso that you not be mistreated. Were you mistreated?"

"I was lied to on a daily basis, and I was kept from all forms of electronic communication, but I was not mistreated."

Harry sits with his elbow on the table, his fingers circling the stem of his wine glass, his eyes on Ruth. He will look at her, saying nothing, until she has told him everything.

"The first thing I need to tell you, Harry, is that I was not told that I had been declared dead. I had no idea about that detail until I met Erin in Aylesbury, and she showed me my grave."

"She …... showed you your _grave_? Whatever was she thinking?"

"In retrospect, it was the best way to communicate the import of my so-called death. I saw what you had put on my gravestone, Harry. I was very …... moved …...by the words you …..." Ruth's voice trails off, as Harry's eyes hold hers.

"I meant – still mean – every one of those three words," he says softly.

Ruth nods, her eyes finding his at last.

"Don't be angry with Erin, Harry. I think she's handled the situation very well."

Harry nods, determined to not interrupt her again.

"Ten days after I was stabbed, William visited me in hospital, and told me I was being sent to France for the remainder of my recovery, and that the French DST and MI-6 needed my analyst skills, and I was being seconded for a period of three to six months. When I asked after you, William told me that you were staying away from me in order to make it easier for me to spend time in France. Even in my diminished state, I thought that strange. He – Towers – told me that you had been by my side while I was in a coma, but you'd been too busy to visit once I woke up. I also thought that peculiar. I knew that had you known I was about to leave the country for any period of time, wild horses couldn't have kept you away."

Harry sighs his agreement and nods.

"I was put to work slowly, but my gut feeling had me being very wary of the people whom I saw on a daily basis. There were three French women, with whom I talked freely in French, and two men whom I now suspect were CIA, although I can't be sure …... but who posed as MI-6 operatives stationed in France. There were a number of others who drifted in and out, but with whom I had no personal contact. One of the so-called Six officers called himself Peter Fox. He seemed like the boss, that is until I met a man who called himself Lindsay. When I asked him was that his first or his last name, he replied that it was both. I immediately sensed deception."

"All secret service people are deceptive, Ruth."

"I know that, but this was a level of deception which included the doctors and nurses who tended me until I was well, as well as all the French-speaking people, and the men – whom I now believe were CIA, or perhaps rogue CIA. My antenna was on high alert, and so when they began bringing me documents – all hard copies – for me to interpret, decipher or analyse, I pretended that my memory and my intellect were impaired."

_My clever Ruth_, Harry thinks, smiling across the table at her. Ruth notes the smile, but pushes on.

"I gave them just enough of my expertise for me to be useful to them. You have to realise that were I to have suddenly been of no use, I had no idea what they planned to do with me, and even worse, I was afraid that they may then demand they be given you in my place. Once I realised what they were getting me to do – what they were planning – I became unwell. I faked being unwell. It wasn't easy to pull that off. There were three French doctors who kept examining me, saying that they couldn't find anything wrong with me. It's hard to fake a poor memory, especially when my memory is actually -"

"Extraordinary."

"Mmmm, yes. And then I was saved from having to keep faking memory loss by a phone call from Towers, saying my mother had died, and would I like to return to England for the funeral."

"I'm sorry about your mother, Ruth."

"Thank you. Erin told me that you attended her funeral."

"Yes, I did. In a way, I did it on your behalf, because at that time, I believed you to be dead."

"Imagine how it would have been had I made it back for her funeral? The shock of seeing me would have been -"

"Almost intolerable. Why weren't you there, Ruth?"

"I faked a breakdown, and had to stay in France for an extra two weeks. When I was well enough, they let me go home – just like that – and I returned to the UK via Amsterdam, where I had Jake de Vries make me a passport in the name of Lisa Ruth Chisholm, just in case my captors had other ideas."

"I suspect that your death isn't official. I'll have to check that out for you, Ruth."

She nods at him, wondering why it is that she hadn't seen earlier – years ago – how wonderful this man is.

"In the next few days I plan to write a report for Erin – and you, of course. I saw enough documents to put together what it is these CIA operatives are planning. Can you wait until the report is written to find out, Harry?"

"I can. I'm curious, of course, but I imagine that they're conducting a black op on UK soil."

"Correct, but that's only half of it."

"Why did Towers recommend you for the job?"

"He didn't. Not really. They asked him could he loan them his own analyst, since they'd heard I'm rather good, and when he told them I'd been injured, and was still in hospital, they said that was fine, and they would take care of my convalescence. Apparently, Towers convinced them that if they took me, they should leave you be."

Ruth's last sentence has Harry looking glum, even morose. "Don't tell me that you sacrificed yourself for me again, Ruth. I won't be able to stand knowing that if you did."

"As I understand it, William was the one who made the final decision, and activated the swap – me for you. I have no problem with that, Harry. Had the CIA demanded they have you, we'd never see one another again. At least this way, I'm now back home …... with you."

"Would you be here now were you to have been well? Wouldn't you still be in France, working for them?"

"Maybe …... but eventually, I would have been of little use to them. The people organising this operation are expecting to die during its execution. They're zealots, Harry, and they're rather dangerous. I'm relieved to be out of there."

Harry pours himself another glass of wine. He goes to fill Ruth's glass, but she covers it with her hand.

"There's just one thing I don't understand, Ruth …..."

"Yes?"

"If this is a black op, and it's going to have repercussions -"

"World-wide repercussions."

"Yes. If it's that secret, how come these people – these CIA people – allowed you access to their plans?"

"They didn't, Harry."

"So …... how do you know what they're planning?"

"It's all in what they didn't show me. They gave me random pieces of intel to analyse, and random – it seemed – texts to translate. Some of it was from our side – from UK security services – so I had to tread carefully. At first I thought they were testing me – to see whether I could do what Towers said I could. But then, after around four weeks, I began to see a pattern …... and there were pieces missing in this pattern. I predict that beginning around six weeks after the Olympics end, there will be random, uncoordinated attacks in British cities. I'm not certain what forms the attacks will take. There may be unprovoked murders, perhaps there will be suicide bombings – things we're not used to seeing on our streets. And then while we're waiting for the other shoe to fall, the real reason for their secrecy will unfold in Washington, New York, Seattle, Chicago, Houston and Los Angeles – just to name a few - and that will be a coordinated attack."

"On their own people?"

"On their infrastructure – transport systems, major highways, communication towers, electricity supplies, hospitals, government buildings, and mostly using electronic means. It has the potential to bring the US to its knees."

"Are you sure about this, Ruth?" Harry looks worried, but Ruth can see that he's taking her seriously.

"No, but the intel I saw makes no sense without my speculation. I believe that the only real variable is _when_ it will all kick off. I'm guessing that it will begin in the lull after the Olympics, when this major event has gone off without a hitch, and security services and police are basking in contentment after another success. Hopefully, when you read my report, Harry, it will all appear much more clear."

"I trust it will."

"Until then, I don't think there's any desperate hurry, but we have to remain focussed. It will be at least six months before it's likely to begin. And then …... it has the potential to be like …..."

"Armageddon," Harry finishes the sentence for her, before he takes a big swig from his glass of wine. He then puts down his glass, and looks across the table at Ruth, his expression serious.

"The very same," she replies.


	6. Chapter 6

As comfortable as the bed is, Harry has trouble falling asleep. As disturbing as Ruth's findings are, it is not that which keeps him awake.

Down the hall, two doors away, Ruth lies awake. She is using all her self-control to stay in her bed, and not wander down the carpeted hallway to Harry's room. She knows he'd welcome her in his bed. She's noticed how he looks at her, his eyes haunted by the past, but hungry for her. She's just not sure whether they are ready to take that step.

Their goodnight had been a little awkward. Together they had cleaned up after dinner, and then climbed the stairs – together. They had stopped outside her room, and Harry had leaned down to kiss her goodnight. His lips had met hers, and it had felt wonderful – warm and soft, and absolutely wonderful. It was Harry who had pulled away first, and he had said goodnight to her, and then hurried off to his bedroom. Ruth had stood there for a moment, confused, and more than a little aroused, suddenly knowing how Harry had felt that night at Havensworth all those years ago. Had they really loved one another for that long? And here they are, still running from intimacy. That will have to change. And soon.

Harry turns over for the tenth time. No, his right side is not his favourite side. Perhaps he should try his left side again. Wait …... if he lies on his left side, he can't see the door. _Jesus, you're hopeful ….. expecting to open your eyes through the night to see the door opening, and Ruth joining you, with the intention of …... what? Well_, _sex_,_ of course. I want it, and I'm almost certain she does too._

Ruth really is tired. Her eyes are heavy, and her mind is a confusion of images and words – all of them Harry. What is wrong with him? What is wrong with her? Are their signals that confusing?

Harry settles on his left side, and at last exhaustion takes him. As his eyes close, and his mind stops churning, his last thought before sleep is of Ruth.

* * *

Two different estate agents are looking at the house – one at ten, and the other at midday. At eight thirty Ruth is finishing her breakfast, and she overhears Harry on the phone to Erin.

"I need Calum to send photos to my safe email address. Every secret service agent stationed in France from MI-6 and the CIA. I also want images of anyone from the CIA and the British secret service who have either been decommisioned, or who have gone AWOL, during the last two years. If the people who held Ruth are not amongst them, we need to widen the net."

He taps the end call icon, and pockets his phone. "What?" he says, seeing Ruth staring at him.

"Nothing."

"That look was not `nothing'. It was …..."

"I love it when you take charge, Harry. You look revived this morning."

"Taking charge is what I do best." He smiles at her, and then leaves the kitchen, saying something about needing his electronic tablet. "I'll check out the images on that, and bring it down to show you."

Ruth watches him leave the kitchen. She wonders why it is he seems uncomfortable whenever they begin to get close. It used to be she who ran whenever they approached any form of intimacy. Her excuse had been the fear that he may have wanted to use her for sex, but she is sure that is not, and never was true. Harry has proven over and over that he cares deeply for her. And then there was the inscription on her gravestone. _Always My Beloved. _You can't get much clearer than that.

Ruth hurries around the downstairs rooms, tidying in preparation for when the estate agents arrive to inspect the house.

She has just re-entered the kitchen, when Harry appears in the doorway with his tablet.

"I need you to look at these, Ruth. I'll first show you the legitimate agents who are meant to be in France."

He draws out the chair next to his, and pulls it close, indicating she should sit there, close beside him. Ruth sits, and leans against his arm so that she can see the screen, as he scrolls through the images – a few women, but mostly men. She is hyper-aware of Harry's body warmth, as well as his breathing. There is something strange inside her that loves to hear – and feel – Harry breathing. As he scrolls through the faces, and she says `no' to each one, she feels her body leaning into him, almost becoming part of him, while at the same time, she is sure his breathing is becoming heavier. Then she realises that her left breast rests against his arm, but she doesn't move …... and nor does he. It is clear that neither wishes this close contact to end. Ruth wants more, and she could bet her mother's house on Harry wanting more. When has he not?

They reach the end of the images – twenty eight in all – and none of them are familiar to Ruth.

"That's only the legitimate agents, Ruth. Calum has still to complete a file on agents who have been decommisioned, or who have left under a cloud, plus one or two who have been presumed dead, but have been seen since their deaths. He may take a few hours to put that together, so we'll have to wait until after the estate agents have been."

"What do you suggest we do in the meantime, Harry? The first estate agent isn't due for half an hour."

Ruth still leans against Harry, who seems not to mind.

He turns slightly so that their eyes meet, and he smiles. "There won't be time for what you're suggesting, Ruth." His voice is smooth as honey.

"I've known men for whom half an hour was ample time."

"It's not ample time for me, Ruth."

"I'm relieved to hear that. All I'm suggesting is this," and her words fade away as she reaches up to kiss him.

She knows she is taking a risk, but someone has to. The kiss begins softly, carefully, with lips exploring lips. Harry's lips are warm and soft …... and pliable. They've kissed before, of course, but not like this. This is …... exquisite to the point of being painful. Harry's lips part, and she feels his tongue flick her lip. Ruth hears a moan, and suspects it may be coming from her own throat. If she hadn't loved this man before, she does now.

They both turn a little, making it easier to put their hands on one another – Harry's arms slide around her, one hand at her neck, the other at her waist, and Ruth puts both her arms around his neck, curling his hair around her fingers. After a breathing break, they continue the kiss, but this time gentleness gives way to desperation and, yes, lust. One of Harry's hands cups Ruth's breast, and his thumb rubs across her nipple until it hardens. At the same time, Ruth moves one of her hands to his thigh, sliding her palm over the material of his trousers, edging closer to his groin with each movement of her hand up his leg. Had the doorbell not rung at that moment, they may not have stopped there.

They pull apart, both breathing heavily, and lean together until their foreheads meet.

"Damn that estate agent for being early," Ruth says.

"We can continue this later," Harry whispers, and kisses her briefly before standing and turning from her, adjusting his trousers at the front.

Ruth checks that her clothing is straight before she goes to the door to greet the estate agent.


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: Continuing thanks to those who continue to read and review.**_

* * *

"That's him. That's Peter Fox!"

It is late afternoon, and the estate agents have both been, and Ruth has chosen the second one to sell the house. The one who had arrived early, perhaps fortunately interrupting their kiss, had not been very interested in the house, talking about how it would scrub up well with renovation. The second one – Amanda – had seen the value and the quality, and had immediately pin-pointed her target market for the sale of the house, and then she had organised a time with Ruth for taking photographs. That is now one less thing for Ruth to be worrying about.

She and Harry are back looking through the next set of images which Calum has put together. This time, they are not sitting quite so close to one another. There is plenty of time later for further intimacy.

"Are you sure of that, Ruth?"

"Of course I'm sure. I'd see him every day. He'd bring a satchell of files for me to peruse, and he'd return each evening to collect both the files and my analysis. He was very pleasant to me, but I didn't trust him."

"Why not?"

"His eyes were too close together."

"Is that all?" Harry's eyes are smiling. Harry has done little other than smile ever since they'd kissed.

"No. He'd often smile when he was saying something unpleasant about a foreign country's population, or agents from another country. His facial expressions and his words often didn't match. That's what initially had me on alert."

"His real name is Gil Tarca – formerly a CIA agent, who went missing in Morocco eighteen months ago. So ….. if Morocco is the connection, here are three more agents who disappeared when they were in Morocco …... the same year, as it turns out. 2010."

Ruth pointed at one of the three images on the tablet's screen, a man with a completely bald head, and heavy eyebrows. "That's Lindsay. He was the one in charge. Those two – Fox and Lindsay are the only people I saw who seemed like CIA. That one there – he looks familiar, but I think he wears glasses, or he did when I saw him. His name was Carl."

"That's also his real name. Carl Tasker. He can't be very high up in the organisation if he uses his real name. What about their accents?"

"Indeterminate. Lindsay's accent was as much French as anything. I heard him speaking French, and he was as fluent as a native."

"His real name is Greg Germanis. Formerly CIA. Mental health problems after a long stint in South Africa, so he was sent to Morocco, and from there, he disappeared, presumed dead. No wife or kids, no close relatives, so after three weeks the CIA gave up looking. Some of these guys spend years non-stop in the field, and they come back damaged beyond repair. I'll alert Calum before he leaves for the day."

Harry takes his phone from his pocket.

"Harry," says Ruth carefully. "You'll leave it up to the young ones to sort this out, won't you? I don't want you haring off looking for these men."

Harry holds his phone in his hand and looks at her, his other hand over his heart. "I already said I'm staying, and I mean it. My first priority is you. I'm not letting you out of my sight. I've already lost you twice, so I'm not about to lose you a third time. Besides, I think Dimitri might enjoy this one, and I trust him. He's a skilled operative. He has some friends in the French secret service who might be interested in lending a hand, especially when they find out what's been going on on French soil."

Harry is about to scroll through his Contacts list, when Ruth reaches across, and lays her palm against his jaw, her thumb caressing his cheek. "Thank you," she says.

Harry leans towards her, and kisses her briefly before making the call to Calum.

* * *

Harry is ready for bed, having spoken to Calum on the phone, and told him everything Ruth had told him earlier.

"I think you need to hold off any action until Ruth has finished her report. She's writing it now, but she'll need at least another twenty four to forty eight hours hours to finish it. I thought Dimitri would enjoy a sojourn in France, but then it's not up to me to be giving the orders."

"Erin quite likes giving orders. All the same, you have an investment in this operation being successful."

"I do. If these people are not all caught, Ruth could be in danger."

"Leave it with us, Harry …... and don't worry about a thing. We all love Ruth."

"Good. That's good."

Harry had been warmed by Calum's words, even though he longed to respond with irritation. Old habits. He knows Calum to be a good man, a man he can trust, and who deserves better than his irritability.

He heads to the bathroom, and has a quick shower before bed. He also shaves, even though he'd shaved that morning. _ Just in case_, he thinks. On his way to bed, he checks with Ruth, who is perched on her bed, hunched over the laptop Erin had loaned her, chewing the edge of her thumbnail. Harry watches her for a while, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his bathrobe. There is still a part of him that finds it hard to accept both that she is alive, and that he had been lied to by a man holding one of the highest offices in the land. _Former_, he reminds himself. _Towers is the former Home Secretary._

"I'm off to bed now, Ruth," he says after a few minutes of watching Ruth work.

She looks up, and smiles. "I'll be there in a minute." They each watch the other, anticipation hanging deliciously in the air between them. "You'll wait up for me, won't you?"

"Of course I will."

Harry wants to kiss her, but he also doesn't wish to interrupt her. She'd not thank him for that. When he hasn't left the doorway of Ruth's bedroom, she blows him a kiss. Reluctantly, he leaves, knowing that when Ruth gets involved in her work, nothing – not even the promise of sex with him – can distract her.

The duvet on his double bed is thick and warm, so Harry dresses in a light pair of track pants, and one of his better t-shirts – the only one he has with him which is not faded and well worn. He slides under the duvet, and lays his head on his pillow. He should read something, but he's too jumpy and excited to be able to concentrate on the written word. He'd end up reading the same paragraph over and over, still not comprehending it fully. He has waited years for this, and he has no control over Ruth. He has to wait for her to remember what they did earlier in the day, and what they have wordlessly decided should happen tonight. He's thought of little else since their kisses before the first of the estate agents arrived. Inside his head, he's been running through what might happen tonight when they crawl under the duvet together. He feels his body respond as he imagines Ruth's soft breasts against his chest, her thighs against his, her hips thrusting against his own. Were he home alone, this is the time when he'd push his hands under the waistband of his track pants, and imagine his hands to be Ruth's. He'd close his eyes, and imagine her in bed next to him, leaning against him, her hair tickling his nose, her hand sliding gently over his skin.

He wants this. His body aches for her. He just hopes Ruth feels the same way he does.

Against his desires and wishes, Harry falls asleep, so that when, almost an hour later, Ruth enters his bedroom, she has to turn off the light next to Harry's side of the bed before she climbs in beside him. She is disappointed, of course, but she hopes they can both wake early, and maybe then …...


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N: Whilst my aim has been to stick within T rating, there may be a word or two in this chapter which strays over the line a tad.**_

* * *

Ruth wakes to feel Harry lying against her back, his warmth permeating her clothing, and reaching her skin. She has often wondered how it would feel to lie against him, absorbing his body heat. He is solid and warm, his chest against her back, his genitals soft against her buttocks (although there is a part of him which is no longer completely soft), his legs wound around hers, one of his arms tucked around her waist. He is breathing lightly, and with care. He is not asleep. Suddenly he sighs heavily, and she feels his breath flutter hotly against her neck.

She continues to pretend she's asleep. She needs to get used to this, to him being so close to her, so alive, so powerful.

"Ruth," he whispers softly against her neck, "I want to lie against you and feel your body fit with mine. I want us to sleep like this, our bodies curved together."

Ruth continues feigning sleep.

"I want to feel your hands lift my clothing, and glide across my skin …... I want to touch your skin …... everywhere, as you touch mine. …... I want to feel your breasts against my chest, and then explore them with my fingers. I want to feel your nipples harden under my touch."

Harry takes another breath, and then breathes out slowly against the skin of her neck. Ruth's body moves gently and steadily with faked sleep, although she feels the beginnings of heat rising from between her legs.

"I want to touch you everywhere …... everywhere …... and I want to kiss you until we gasp, and need to come up for air. I want to kiss your skin, and to feel you kiss mine …. all over. And then …... and then I want you to touch my cock, slide your fingers up and down it before I sink myself into you."

Ruth is aware of a movement behind her. Harry pulls his body away from her, and she feels suddenly less warm. His face is still against her neck, his chest is still there, but the bottom half of him has moved from her. His wants are causing a flush throughout her body.

"I want to move inside you. I want to love you slowly. I want to feel you as your muscles tighten around me. I want to watch your face while you come. I want us to make love."

He is no longer speaking, but he is breathing heavily, and as he moves closer to her again, she can feel him hard against her buttocks. She reaches around with one hand, and rests her fingers on his thigh, and she rubs her hand gently and slowly up and down his thigh over the light material of his track pants. Harry again breathes out heavily.

"I thought you were asleep," he whispers against her neck.

"I needed to know what you want, Harry. You won't tell me when we're both awake."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. At least, now I know."

Ruth very carefully rolls over to face him, and she slides both arms around his neck, and pulls herself close to him before she kisses him. And then, one by one, they fulfill all Harry's wants …... which are Ruth's wants also.

* * *

When Ruth wakes, it is daytime, the distant hum of traffic seeping through the walls into Harry's bedroom. Beside her, Harry lies on his side, facing her, still in deep sleep, his face the most relaxed she's ever seen it. She smiles as she watches him sleeping, briefly indulging in one of her many fantasies involving him. As much as she longs to lie beside him, watching him while he wakes, she also needs to get on with her report on her time in France, and it won't get written while she lies in bed, staring at her lover.

Lover.

Ruth likes the sound of the word. For her, it evokes something hidden or secret …... assignations in hotels, late night phone calls, the furtive brush of fingers against fingers, voices speaking in whispers, notes written and left under pillows, underwear strewn from doorway to bed, followed by frantic, sweaty, throaty sex …... the stuff of erotic novels.

Harry is a very caring and passionate lover, but she'd always suspected he would be. That has been one of the reasons she'd been so reluctant to take that final step with him. What she's discovered from making love with him is that she, also, is a passionate and active lover, something she'd never been before with any of her previous lovers. With her previous lovers, she had been unable to just let go and enjoy herself. Her head had always got in the way of her enjoyment, but with Harry …... suddenly – overnight – all that has changed. Her whole sense of who she is, what she can and cannot do, is changed.

Ruth slides out of bed quietly, gathers her pyjamas from the floor at the foot of the bed, and after a quick glance back at the sleeping face of her lover – the man she loves, and who loves her - she heads to the bathroom for a shower.

* * *

Harry is woken by his phone ringing. He quickly sits up, looking beside his bed for his jacket. It is slung over the back of a chair, so he gets out of bed, and standing beside the chair naked, he answers the call. It is only when he turns towards the bed he has just left that he notices Ruth is not with him, and he remembers watching her fall asleep in his arms after they'd made love during the night.

His attention is barely on the call as he remembers their lovemaking. It had been wonderful. No, it had been beyond all his plans and dreams and expectations. He is relieved that their first time was during the night, with the light off, and only the palest of glows from through the curtains to light their way. They had relied upon senses other than sight to guide them, and it had been beautiful, and Harry can barely wait until they can do it again.

The phone call brings him back to earth with a thud.

"Alright, I'll see what I can do," he says. "I'll get back to you within the hour."

By the time he showers, shaves, dresses and heads downstairs, Ruth has eaten breakfast, but has left a small pile of pancakes for him to eat. Looking around the downstairs rooms, he finds her curled up on the chair in the conservatory, the laptop open on a table in front of her, a mug of tea between her hands, a faraway look in her eyes.

"Good morning," Harry says, leaning down to kiss her. Ruth's kiss is soft, but passionate.

"Good morning to you, too," she says, as he lifts his mouth from hers.

"It looks like I'll have to make a quick trip to London today. I had a call from an old asset of mine -"

"Old, as in years, or old, as in you haven't been in contact for a long time?"

"The latter. It's Sid Leatherby. He infiltrated the CIA back in the 70's. He's about my age. He has news for me, but won't tell me anything unless it's face to face. I can't help but feel skeptical."

"Harry, don't not go because of me. I was staying here on my own before you arrived, and I can do it again."

"I'm wondering whether Leatherby's call is a ruse to get me away from here …... away from you."

"Did he say why he wanted to see you?"

"He said it was information about what's being planned in France. What if he's up to his neck in it, too?"

"Harry," she says, reaching out a hand and taking his hand in her own, "you'll never know unless you go. When does he want to meet you?"

"At midday. We always met at The Albion in North London. He likes the beer garden."

"You'll not be sitting in the beer garden today," Ruth muses, looking through the conservatory windows to the light drizzle which has been falling all morning.

"I'm thinking that I should go. He hasn't contacted me in over seven years. He's been out of Britain for that time, but all the same. I smell something."

"I smell the pancakes, Harry. Get some food into you. You burned up quite a lot of energy overnight."

Harry smiles at her, and once again leans down to kiss her, only this time, his hand finds its way under her jumper and t-shirt, and then roams over her abdomen to her bra, sliding under the fabric until his fingers find her breast. Ruth doesn't complain at all until his fingers pinch her nipple, and she suddenly feels very, very warm.

"Harry, that's enough," she says, pulling away from him. "We both have more important things to be doing."

"More important than this?" His voice is lazy, and his speech slightly slurred.

"No, but we have all night for _that_."

"All night, Ruth?"

"Yes, Harry, all night. Now, have your breakfast, go to London, and come back to me in one piece."

Harry leans down for one last kiss before breakfast, but Ruth puts her hands in front of her face to block him.

"You can't blame a man for trying, Ruth."


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N: Just don't examine the plot too closely. It's a device - nothing more.**_ ... **_that's for you, NatesDate!_**

* * *

Harry arrives at The Albion ten minutes before midday. He orders a beer for himself, and a whiskey and soda for Sid. He can't imagine that Sid Leatherby would have changed drinks. He'd always been a man of habit.

In the few minutes he has to himself until Sid arrives, he remembers waking up in bed in the early hours, Ruth's pyjama-clad body curved within the curve of his own body. His libido had instantly kicked in, and everything which he'd been holding a tight rein on for years had burst to the surface, pushing him to slide closer to her, wrapping his arm around her waist, and burying his face in her neck, and then pressing himself against her buttocks. Even had he wanted to stop, he couldn't have. It had been time for him to act, and he couldn't be happier that he did. He feels a smile relax his facial features as he remembers their lovemaking. It had certainly been worth waiting for.

When Sid arrives ten minutes later, Harry is still smiling, but the smile fades when he notices how different the other man looks – thin and grey-faced, and his once bright blue eyes have faded to a dull, watery blue-grey.

"It's cancer," Sid tells him eventually. "It's in the liver. I only have a matter of months to live. That's why I had to talk to you today. I'm heading back to France tomorrow, after I visit my brother and sister. They live in Eastbourne. Then I'll be off. You'll not be seeing me again."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Harry says, and means it. He quite likes Sid, and has no real reason to distrust him …... and yet …...

"I'm telling you this because I know – from the grapevine, you know – that you're quite close to the little lady they took to Nantes."

And this is when Harry sits up and takes notice.

Fifty minutes later, Harry has left the hotel, and is on the phone to Ruth. When she doesn't answer either her mobile phone, or the house phone, he rings Calum, and explains his concerns as quickly as he can.

"It just happens that I sent someone to Cheltenham when Erin told me you were planning to be with Ruth there. Jamie Clegg."

"Can you get him to check Ruth's mother's house, and if -"

"Harry, I know the drill, and so does Jamie. He's a good agent. Leave it with me, and you get back there as soon as you can. Oh, and Harry …..."

"Yes?" _Why is it that after all this time he is still so irritated by Calum_?

"Don't panic. She'll be alright. Ruth's a survivor."

And whilst Calum's words are true, Harry wishes that Ruth didn't have to be a survivor. He'd rather she live her life freely and peacefully …... with him.

* * *

Harry receives updates by phone all the way back to Cheltenham. By the time he parks his car in the driveway of Ruth's mother's house, it has been confirmed that at 12.15 pm she'd left the house accompanied by a man – six feet tall, dark hair with a receding hair line, glasses, dressed in a dark suit. Jamie Clegg had canvassed all the neighbours, and had struck gold when he spoke to the woman across the street. Eileen McEvoy in number 68A spends her days sitting by the window, waiting for something to happen on the street. She'd sat by the window throughout the day Elizabeth had been buried, and three weeks later, she'd been shocked and surprised to see Elizabeth's daughter arrive at the house, having died over three months earlier. From that day on, she'd not left her window seat during daylight hours. She even had a notebook filled with dates, times, and people who came and went to the houses across the street. She'd noted Harry's arrival, referring to him as: `_smartly dressed, balding man, a bit too old for the daughter_'. On the same afternoon Harry had arrived, she'd recorded them arriving home from shopping - `_Balding man helps E's daughter unpack groceries from car. Laughing and smiling at one another, touching hands. Something going on there._'

Harry had let Jamie into the house as soon as he arrived. They both did a quick check of all the rooms. At first glance, nothing seemed out of place, nothing had been disturbed. Ruth seemed to have gone with this man voluntarily.

"Has anyone found him on the database?" Harry asks.

Jamie shrugs before he speaks, a habit Harry would rather this man didn't have. Harry would prefer a polite yes or no. Still, Jamie isn't yet thirty, and his appearance for this assignment is casual – jeans, a sweat shirt and a hooded jacket, with trainers – the uniform of youth, and so he's less likely to be noticed than were he wearing a suit and tie.

Harry looks around him, trying to get inside Ruth's head. There is no CCTV on the street, but there is on the main road which this street leads on to.

"Jamie, get on to Calum and see if he's found anything on the nearest CCTV cameras. I'll check our bedroom again. Ruth may have left a note …... or something."

Harry doesn't expect to find a note. Ruth would never be that obvious, but she may have left something – something only he would recognise. Inside her bedroom – the one she'd occupied as she was growing up – everything looks normal, even to the laptop sitting closed on the bedside table. That is strange in itself, because when last he'd seen her, she had it in the conservatory.

In his bedroom – the one they are now sharing – all is as normal, except, on his side of the bed, on the table, is a book. He'd already checked the table on her side, and nothing was out of place. He hadn't done any reading in bed since he'd arrived, pre-occupied as he'd been by thoughts of Ruth. This is not a book he'd be likely to read. An anthology of American poetry. Then he remembers that Amanda, the estate agent, had been coming at 10.45 am to photograph the interior of the house. Harry quickly descends the stairs, finds Amanda's business card, and rings the number.

"Do you have the photos handy?" he asks her.

"I'm looking through them now," she says, "Is there a problem?"

"I'm hoping there isn't a problem. This may sound like a strange question, but did you take any shots of the bedroom at the back of the house? The one with the double bed with the maroon duvet."

"Yes. I took several in that room, because it's a large room, and I wanted to get as much in the photo as possible."

"Can you look for something for me? The bedside tables …... are there any books on either of the tables?"

"There's nothing on either table, and I took the photograph so that the bed and tables were clear against the backdrop of the window."

"Thank you, Amanda. You've been a tremendous help. Just one more thing. What does the time stamp say for that photograph?"

"Eleven-o-nine."

Harry quickly thanks her and hangs up. If she's confused, then that can't be helped.

He turns to Jamie, who is searching under tables and chairs, just in case Ruth had left a note.

"There's a book beside my side of the bed which Ruth put there deliberately so that I'd notice it. The Americans have her. They've taken her in exchange for me."

"Are you sure?" Jamie asks.

"I know how Ruth thinks, how she works. She was leaving me a note in the form of a book of American poetry."

"That doesn't help us a whole lot, Harry. We still don't know where she is, where they've taken her. This is a long shot, but maybe she left further clues in the book. It might be worth looking."

Harry runs up the stairs, his heart thumping when he reaches the landing, and hurries down the hallway to the back bedroom. He grabs the book from beside his side of the bed, and runs downstairs. By the time he reaches the kitchen, Jamie is making them each a cup of coffee, and Harry is out of breath, and has to sit down.

Harry sips his coffee slowly while he flicks through the book. There are faint notes written in margins, but they are old. He is looking for something which was added this morning, and he really has little idea what he is searching for.

Then he sees it. He almost misses it. Inside the frontspiece, there is a blank page, and written in Ruth's handwriting are several very small words: _Bath Rd Theatre_.

"Are you familiar with Cheltenham, Jamie?"

"Sure. My girlfriend's folks live here. Why?"

"Is there a theatre on Bath Road?"

"Yeah. It's been there a while. Sally wanted me to go there one night, but I chose to go to the pub with her dad. Theatre is for women. And poofs."

_A reconstructed man, then_, Harry thinks. "Any luck with CCTV?"

"Only that a black Lexus left this street at 12.17, and headed north, and then turned on to Bath Road, and then they lost it. CCTV only takes shots every fifteen seconds, and a car can go anywhere in that time."

"Do we have backup?" Harry asks. He really wants to get moving immediately, so that he can find Ruth and bring her back home.

"No, sorry. It's just me, and I've been ordered to not let you out of my sight."

Harry sighs heavily, realising that he's stuck in the house with a junior officer, who no doubt has orders to prevent him leaving the house using whatever means he considers necessary. Harry glances at Jamie, and sees a man thirty years younger than he, a good four to five inches taller, and perhaps a half a stone heavier in weight. The intimacy he and Ruth had shared overnight has left him feeling loose in body and foolish in mind. Despite that, he'd not stand a chance were he to try to take him on.

Harry is alone inside Ruth's mother's house, with a young and fit junior MI-5 officer, and he feels old and useless.

And scared.

And fed up with trying to convince himself that he's not afraid.


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N: On the home stretch now. Thanks to all who are still reading, and especially to reviewers.**_

* * *

His phone rings, shocking him out of his reverie. Erin's name appears on his caller ID.

"Harry? We've identified the man who took Ruth away, and we have the names and identities of three of his associates. They entered the country yesterday using false identities. The man with whom Ruth left the house is Carl Tasker, US citizen, former marine, but not CIA. He's had difficulty settling since he left the marines. These men are forming a splinter group from the group who took Ruth to France, where the original group are mostly ex-CIA, frustrated by the rules they were expected to work under."

Harry's head is spinning. He should be used to dealing with such sudden turns in events, but this time it's different. This time, the woman he loves has been taken by yet another group of fanatics …... a sub-group within the original group.

"What do they want with Ruth?" he asks.

"We thought at first that it's her skills, but now I'm thinking that -"

"They've taken her to flush me out." Harry looks across the kitchen at Jamie, who is putting another cup of coffee in front of him. Harry is sure he'll soon be pissing pure caffeine.

"Yes. I've ordered CO-19 to the scene, and they've already taken off in a helicopter. They should be there within thirty minutes."

"Christ, Erin, anything can happen in thirty minutes. She's already been gone almost three hours."

"Harry, I don't think they're going anywhere. They'll stay where they are until you arrive."

"Then I must go."

"No, Harry. Wait. I've set something up. I think you need to stay where you are. Ruth is going to need you once we rescue her."

"But -"

"No buts, Harry. It's under control. Do you remember Adrian Pickering?"

"Section A. He retired recently."

"Semi-retired. We had to get him off the golf course, but he was keen to be involved in Ruth's rescue. He has thirty minutes to learn his lines."

Harry is still amazed by the ingenuity of his team. Who is he kidding? They're no longer strictly his team. This group of well-disciplined, coordinated officers belongs to Erin. She'll take the credit for Ruth's rescue, and he couldn't be happier. This will give him more time to spend with Ruth, and isn't that what makes him happy? The country's safety is in good hands, leaving him free to live his life. With Ruth.

He ends the call, and thanks Jamie for the coffee.

"You must have a cast iron bladder," Harry says.

"Nah. I'm just young. Older guys – y'know – your bladder's not what it used to be."

_Thanks for that, Jamie,_ Harry muses. _Always nice to be reminded how old I am. At least, Ruth doesn't think so. _ As much as he'd love to tell Jamie about early this morning, and how he'd brought his lover to climax three times, he's not sure Jamie would appreciate nor understand why that detail is so important …... _and_ impressive.  
"Why you?" Jamie says after a time. "Why do these dudes want you?"

"I suspect they want to sell me on." Harry decides to ignore the use of the word, `dudes', another Americanism which has infiltrated the English language.

"To who?"

_To whom,_ Harry thinks, wondering whether this young man ever had a formal education. "To the CIA."

"So, they're not CIA?"

"No. They're not. Although they once were."

"Jesus," Jamie says, and Harry knows this is the closest this young man has ever come to praying.

* * *

Ruth is sitting on a steel chair in a bare room with no windows. She knows Cheltenham well, and even though she was blindfolded during the drive from her mother's house, she has figured out where they are. She'd overheard Carl on the phone, of course, and left a note for Harry, but that was still no guarantee that she'd end up here. It's the smell. All theatres smell of makeup and wood polish. The Playhouse Theatre on Bath Road dates back to 1945, so there are layers of wood polish having been used in the 67 years since the theatre had been built. She guesses that she has been taken downstairs to the original dressing rooms, which were created out of a bomb shelter on the site. The room smells and feels damp, and is no doubt no longer used.

It is when she smells the overpowering cologne of her captor that she knows Carl is nearby, keeping an eye on her. He's educated, smooth, but hard as nails. He'd told her before they'd left her mother's house that they were heading to the theatre, but she hadn't believed him. Then she'd heard him on the phone to an associate, and she'd overheard the words `Bath road.' She hopes Harry has noticed the book, and that he'd found her note. She'd put that in place when she went upstairs to change into jeans, something Carl had no qualms about. Stupid, arrogant man. She could well have brought a gun downstairs, had she owned one, and she could have blown his brains out. She'd done it before.

But it was Carl's easy-come, easy-go attitude towards her which has led her to believing that she is not their intended target. They are just too casual about her, as though she is simply a means to an end.

Which can only mean that they are after Harry, and that they are unlikely to harm her. She has a sense that these men are waiting for something.

Harry was right about his asset. She suspects that Sid Leatherby's real function was to draw Harry away from Cheltenham for a few hours.

She hopes that they haven't already taken Harry, and that by now, he is back home waiting for – and worrying about – her.

She can hear a conversation just beyond the doorway. It is whispered, but she hears Harry's name mentioned, followed by the words, `the woman'.

She hears footsteps approaching her rapidly, and then she can smell Carl close to her, and he is untying her blindfold, and then he removes her wrist ties. When her eyes are free she takes a while to become accustomed to the light, even though the only source of light in this bleak room is a single light bulb. Carl thrusts a phone at her.

"Ring him."

"Ring who?"

"Harry Pearce. We know the two of you are living together, and we want him. Ring him." From being very well-spoken, even suave, Carl has suddenly become abrupt and cold, with a nasty edge to him.

Ruth hears voices outside the doorway – male voices with American accents – and her optimism fades. She may never get out of here alive. She has seen Carl, and could identify him.

"Ring him!" Carl says cruelly.

* * *

Harry picks up his phone, and answers it without checking the number.

"Harry? It's me."

"Ruth …... Ruth, are you alright? Where are you?"

"Harry, don't say anything. I'm with a group of American men..."

In the background, Harry hears a man say `that's enough', and next he knows, he is speaking to Carl Tasker.

"I need to know that Ruth is alright," Harry says in his best section head voice.

"She spoke to you, didn't she? Now, follow my instructions, and she won't get hurt."

When Harry hangs up, he immediately rings Adrian Pickering, who has already landed in Cheltenham, less than a half a mile from the theatre on Bath Road.

"Adrian, it's Harry Pearce. I've just been on the phone to the person holding Ruth, and these are the instructions they gave me." And he passes on the instructions to Adrian, who repeats them, to ensure he has understood them.

"Do you have a pet name for her, Harry? You know, something only you and she know about. I need to alert her to what is happening as soon as I see her."

"Thank her for leaving out the anthology of American poetry. She'll understand that. We only ever call one another by our names. She'll pick it up quite quickly. She's very bright."

"So I've heard."

"But don't go in for another fifteen minutes. That's how long it would take for me to drive there."

"It'll be fine, Harry. I'm happy to help."

"Just don't get yourself killed, Adrian. These guys might seem civilised, but they're fanatics who have been brutalised by their experiences in the field. They're capable of anything, but they're unlikely to hurt Ruth."

And they ring off, and then Harry fills Jamie in on the conversation. After that, he and Jamie can do nothing more but wait. He hates waiting. He once read somewhere that waiting is one of the most stressful things in the world, being the place of all possibilities.

All he wants is for Ruth to come home safely ….. to him.

* * *

_**A/N: Whilst there is a Playhouse Theatre on Bath Road, Cheltenham, and it was built in 1945, the details I describe, and the layout are fictional.**_


	11. Chapter 11

Ruth has been led into a corridor outside the underground room where she'd been held for several hours, with only one glass of water to drink, and nothing to eat. Her stomach has been grumbling with hunger. She was then led up a flight of stairs to another narrow and dark corridor. One of Carl's associates stands behind her, and another one to the side of her, while Carl opens the back door which leads on to an alleyway. The four of them step out into the alleyway, a cul de sac which leads to another alleyway which runs down one side of the theatre.

Walking down the alleyway towards them is a familiar looking man, but it is not Harry. It is then Ruth knows what is going on, and she breathes out heavily, an expression of extreme relief.

She has seen him before, a few years ago at Thames House, and then again while she was working for Towers. She can't claim to know him, but she'd always been surprised by how closely he resembles Harry. He has similar hair colouring and balding pattern, and is the same height, and a similar build, although perhaps not quite as sturdy as Harry.

"Harry?" she calls out, suddenly aware of what is expected of them both.

"Ruth, are you alright?"

"Yes. I'm fine. I'm glad you came. I was worried."

"Thanks for putting out that anthology of American poetry."

Ruth smiles, knowing that this man, Pickering, of Section A, is standing in for Harry. Bolder now, and wishing to maintain the pretense for the benefit of her captors, Ruth walks towards Pickering, and then into his arms. He whispers against her ear, "Harry told me to tell you he loves you."

Close behind her, Ruth hears the footsteps of Tasker and another man. They are staying close so that they can grab `Harry'.

Ruth pulls out of the man's embrace, and kisses him. Pickering is good. He doesn't flinch, or show discomfort, but kisses her back, as comfortably as though they were lovers, his hands moving over her back with familiarity. For a moment, Ruth can't help thinking two things. One is that Adrian Pickering is nowhere near the kisser Harry is, and the other is that were Harry here, watching she and this man kissing, he'd be in a murderous mood.

What happens next is so sudden, that both Ruth and Pickering act surprised, even though both of them have an idea of how this day is meant to end. There is a short burst of gunfire from the roof behind them, and when Ruth and Pickering turn towards the door to the theatre building, they see three bodies on the ground, one of them less than a yard from their feet, his hand having flopped against Ruth's leg as he tumbled to the ground. Another series of shots rings out from the end of the alleyway, and two CO-19 personnel drag another black-suited body into the alleyway to join the others.

Job done, and all are free to go home. C0-19 will do the clean-up, and Adrian Pickering will fly back to London with them.

Less than ten minutes later the police arrive, and very soon after, Harry pulls up on Bath road, and parks in front of the theatre. Adrian Pickering has been waiting under the theatre awning with Ruth, as light drizzle is again falling. It will be at least a half hour until the helicopter will be free to leave, and so he has taken Ruth under his wing until Harry arrives.

When Ruth sees Harry walking towards her, she can't help herself. She breaks away from Adrian, and runs the last few yards to Harry, flinging her arms around him. He grasps her, and draws her close, before kissing her in full view of his stand-in. Ruth knows that Harry is establishing `ownership' of her, and as much as this should annoy her, it doesn't. She is just so thrilled to be with him again, and that they are both safe.

Once they have finished kissing, Harry turns to Pickering, and holds out his hand, at the same time drawing Ruth back under the shelter of the awning. "Thank you for looking after Ruth for me," Harry says, his face wide with a smile, as he shakes the other man's hand. "And for facing the enemy like that."

"I'm just disappointed they didn't grab me, and cart me off to the US. I could do with some time away from home. Madeleine keeps finding jobs for me to do around the house. She wants me to build a summer house in the garden. That's not the reason I retired."

"You wouldn't want to visit America under the circumstances they were planning for me," Harry replies. "I think a lot of barbed wire would have been involved, and one of those orange suits would clash with your colouring." Harry is referring to Adrian's hair, which is ever-so-slightly ginger.

Suddenly, Pickering is called away to get back on the helicopter, and Harry and Ruth are alone under the theatre awning.

"Would you like to grab a drink before we go home?" he asks. He had dispensed with Jamie Clegg the minute he found out that Ruth had been freed, and the rogue CIA contingent neutralised.

Ruth shakes her head, and pulls his head down so that she can kiss him. "I just want to go home, and to have you to myself."

Together they turn, and hand in hand, they walk back to Harry's car.

"Why did you go with him?" Harry asks, putting the key in the ignition, but not yet starting the engine.

"Carl Tasker?"

Harry nods, looking ahead through the windscreen, where above the horizon dark and angry clouds are building.

"He told me that either I go with him, or he'd wait for you to come home, and he'd take you instead …... at gunpoint."

"You should have waited."

"I couldn't, Harry. I couldn't let them take you again. That group wanted to sell you on to the real CIA."

Harry nods again, and this time he starts the engine and pulls the steering wheel to the right, as he drives off. "I'm not worth all the trouble you went to, Ruth."

"You are to me," she says, looking at his profile as he drives, his jaw tight, his face serious. "You are to me."

* * *

"Will it ever stop, Harry?" Ruth asks, twirling her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

What began as a cold, but overcast day, has now developed into a dark and brooding early evening, the wind whipping the rain against the window of their bedroom. Ruth snuggles closer to Harry, absorbing his warmth.

They had barely made it inside the house before it was clear they'd need to hurry upstairs. Their clothes are strewn in a ragged line from the top of the stairs to beside the bed. The sex was frantic and fast. That day they had had to face the prospect of again being parted, and so once they were home, with the door locked behind them, they had to again renew their connection in the best way they know how.

"Will what stop?"

"Bad guys wanting to take you away …... or me."

"There _is_ a way of making that stop."

"We change our identities and emigrate to Nicaragua."

"It need not be that drastic. I'm only of value to the CIA while I'm associated with MI-5. As soon as I leave, they'll look for someone else to target."

"Is this your way of telling me you're about to leave MI-5, Harry?"

Harry pulls his head back and looks into Ruth's eyes. "How would you feel if I said I've had enough? I only stayed in the service because I believed you'd died. I didn't know what else to do with myself. Now …..."

"Now you have me to play with all day, every day."

"Mmm, nice," and Harry qualifies his comment by kissing Ruth – a deep and long-drawn-out kiss.

"The question is," Ruth says once they've pulled out of the kiss, "what do you want to do, Harry?"

"I want to wake up next to you each day, and not have to worry that your life will be in danger because of the job I do."

"I understand that, Harry, but do you _want_ to leave work? _Really_ want to?"

"Yes. I do. I've done enough, and I think that someone younger could bring more energy and enthusiasm to the job. My cynicism now far outweighs my sense of duty, and I need a rest, and I need to be with you. That's all I want. I've lived most of my life without you, and I much prefer life when you're with me. If you'll have me, that is."

"Is this is where we share with one another our plans for the future?"

Harry sits back, his fingers still entwined with Ruth's and gazes at her lovingly. He wants to ask her to marry him, but he knows that it's far too soon for that. Besides, he's already asked her to marry him, and that hadn't turned out well at all. He's prepared to leave it up to Ruth to decide the pace of their relationship, and so far, he has no complaints. None at all.

"I guess the obvious question is," says Harry, his eyes still holding Ruth's gaze, "what are your plans once you sell this house?"

"Honestly? I haven't given it much thought. When I decided to sell this house, I was secretly hoping you'd bought something for us both to retire to."

Harry is gobsmacked. Ruth just keeps coming out with surprises, one after the other.

"So …... what you're saying," Harry says, barely hiding his smile, "is that that you still wish for us to live together …... is that right, Ruth?"

"Yes, that's what I'm saying."

"For the rest of our lives?"

"If you'll have me, Harry."

"Oh, I think I'll have you, Ruth …... again and again, if that's alright with you."


	12. Epilogue

_4 months later:_

Harry is putting the final coat of teak oil on the outdoor dining setting. The sun is shining – barely – and so summer must be just around the corner. That morning he'd dressed in jeans and an open necked shirt, the latter of which he'd taken off while he painted the table. The breeze is cool, but is countered by the warmth of the sun, and he can already feel his shoulders reddening slightly.

He finds himself smiling as he draws the paint brush back over the wood of the table top. He is happy – deliriously so – and it's all because of the woman inside the house, the one who is watching him through the living room window, although she doesn't realise that he knows she's watching. He doesn't look back at her. He knows she is there, her eyes gliding over his bare shoulders and arms, and down his back to his buttocks, which are – thankfully - fully covered by his jeans. No doubt her thoughts are vivid with detail of what plans she has for them later. She always has a plan. She really is insatiable, not that he's complaining. His body feels loose and lean, and he is altogether satisfied with the life they are living …... no MI-5, no red flashes, no long meetings, no dramas …... just the two of them, their small cottage, and the years stretching ahead of them in which to embrace their life together. They are planning to travel, but that may have to be put off for another month or two while they revel in their seclusion, and catch up on the years they've lost.

Ruth loves the cottage, the one he'd looked at that same day he'd discovered that she hadn't died. When the estate agent had rung him and asked him would he like to submit an offer, he and Ruth had driven to Norfolk, and Ruth had immediately fallen in love with the quaint, semi-Tudor house close to the sea. He'd known all along that she was the missing ingredient. She'd rushed from room to room, sharing with him as they went her plans for each room. Upstairs there are two bedrooms – one large and the other small – with a bathroom and toilet, and an expansive landing, with a window which overlooks the coast. Every morning – perhaps for the rest of their lives – the first thing they see as they leave their bedroom will be the North Sea – grey and still on some days, the sea's surface glistening under the sun's rays, while on other days it will be dark and brooding and dangerous, shrouded beneath a protective layer of dense fog.

"This will be our bedroom," she'd said, her eyes shining, as she'd looked around the room, grasping his hand as she came to stand next to him. "I think a queen size bed will fit in here quite nicely."

"I certainly hope so," Harry had replied, and then they'd begun kissing, but had quickly pulled apart when the estate agent had stood in the doorway and politely coughed.

They'd moved in soon after Ruth's mother's house had sold, and each day brought a new idea, some small improvement to bend and mold this cottage into a shape which makes it feel more familiar, more like it had been waiting for them all along. When he'd suggested that they paint the front door in pale green paint, and then lift it with a scraper to give the impression of it peeling, Ruth had smiled at him, her eyes glowing.

"You're so much more the romantic than I am, Harry," she'd said. "I like the blue door. We should leave it like it is."

And so they have.

Suddenly, he hears a cry from Ruth from inside the house.

"Harry, come and look at this." Ruth is knocking on the window with her knuckles, trying to get his attention.

He's finished the table, and had just been staring at the sky, seeing nothing in particular, his heart filled with joy, his mind mulling over the events of the past few weeks, when her voice had grabbed his attention. He rushes into the house, quickly picking up his shirt from on the grass beside the outdoor table, and pulling it on, leaving the buttons undone.

"What is it?" he gasps, seeing her standing in front of the TV.

"BBC News," she says, as if that explains everything. "Calum texted me, telling me to turn it on."

Harry stands next to her, not sure what he's meant to be watching. The PM is being interviewed, and judging by his comments, someone important has died. He takes Ruth's hand, and pulls her down to sit next to him on the sofa.

"Turn it up," he says, seeing that Ruth still holds the remote in her hand.

"Tributes are pouring in for the former Home Secretary, William Towers," the talking head says, his grey suit blending with the grey of the Houses of Parliament behind him. "Mr Towers, aged fifty-one, was found dead earlier today in his home in southern France. The coroner has still to determine the cause of death, but French police say there are no suspicious circumstances. The US President has …..."

Harry drifts away in his mind, remembering the last conversation he'd had with Towers.

"_I have to go away for a very long time, Harry."_

"_Sounds like you're going to gaol, Home Secretary."_

"_In a way, I am. I don't intend coming back to Britain, and so this is likely to be our last conversation."_

There had been a finality to it which had triggered _something_ in Harry's mind, which at the time he'd not examined any more closely, given he was grieving Ruth's loss, and had felt unable to trust his instincts.

When the bulletin is over, Ruth mutes the TV, and turns to him, one hand on his knee. Harry loves the way they seem to need to touch one another whenever they are near. Everything in his life at present is the diametric opposite to his life previously, so much so that it frequently takes his breath away.

"I have a feeling about this, Harry. It sounds to me like suicide, and they're covering it up."

"I agree," he says. "If he suicided, and it was made public, then the whole French conspiracy could be uncovered."

"Of course ….." Ruth says carefully, "I _could_ find out, if you like. How hard can it be to hack into the French coroner's office?"

"Quite difficult, I'd imagine. Ruth …... don't do anything risky. I don't want the spotlight to shine on us."

"I won't if you don't want me to." She smiles up at him, and then her face changes, the light shining mischievously in her eyes. "But Dimitri is now stationed in France. Since he joined MI-6, he can move around without being noticed. I could contact him. What do you think?"

"I think that Dimitri has done enough for us. He organised the arrest of a conspiracy ring of ex-CIA agents, he -"

"Not on his own, Harry. He had plenty of help from the French."

"He's no longer ours to send running off on a mission."

"Aren't you even mildly curious, Harry?"

"About Towers?"

Ruth nods.

"Not really. He's dead. He betrayed both of us, Ruth. Isn't knowing he's dead enough?"

"I'd like to think that he took his own life out of self loathing, and gut-gnawing guilt over what he did."

"Then, my darling, that is what we shall believe."

"There's another small detail I'll bet you don't know."

"Tell me," he says, smiling at her.

"Erin has a beau."

"A beau. No-one uses that word any more, Ruth."

"I do. Don't you want to know who it is?"

He didn't, but for Ruth's sake, he plays along. "Who?"

"Simon Chatterbox."

"His name's Chatterton."

"Everyone knows you called him Chatterbox behind his back."

"Who's everyone, Ruth?"

"Calum. He tells me things."

"As long as that's all he does."

"Are you jealous? You have no need to be jealous, Harry. You're everything to me, and you always will be."

Harry turns to face her, and smiles. He couldn't care less about Erin and the Chatterbox. All he wants, all he cares about is right here beside him.

Ruth's eyes hold his, and she places the remote on the arm of the sofa, and then turns to face him, sliding her hands up his arms to his shoulders, her fingers slipping beneath the fabric of his shirt, still open at the front. She pulls him closer, close enough for her to place her lips on his. Their kiss is soft and slow, but filled with longing and promise. By the time they come up for air, Ruth is lying against the cushions at the end of the sofa, and Harry is lying over her, his hips flush against her own.

"Why, Mr Pearce," she whispers against his cheek, "we've made love twice already today, and -"

"Well, technically, Ruth, it's only been once. There was -"

"Before breakfast …..."

"And the time before that it wasn't yet midnight."

"If you say so, Harry …... but you're ready to go _again_?"

"Actually, Ruth," he says, pulling himself off her, "I'm hungry for something more food related, but then …... well …... after dinner, I'm all yours …... in any and every way you can imagine."

Ruth quickly sits up, and straightens her blouse, while Harry closes the buttons on his shirt. There's no need to be putting further temptation in Ruth's way.

"Then what are we waiting for?" she asks. "I'll cook, while you open the wine."

"Let's both cook," Harry suggests, quickly kissing her lips. "That way we can be -"

"Upstairs quicker?"

"You've read my mind," he says, as he follows her into the kitchen.

_Fin_

* * *

_**A/N: Thanks to all who read and reviewed.**  
_


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